Storm on the Heath
by brombones
Summary: There is a storm brewing, and Heathcliff and Cathy must find shelter.


**Storm on the Heath**

XXXXXXX

"You're a savage!" she squealed, her heeled boots making sharp _clack-clack _sounds against the flat rocks, as she darted down the craggy wall.

Behind her, he followed, and said nothing, wolfish steps easily consuming the distance between them.

The sky above thundered like the frown of an angry god, malcontent heavy is its ceaseless brow; and the clouds massed into a great dark thing, spreading for eternity up and sideways. The air was dark and cold, the moors stretching out forever in a shadow, both forbidding and daring its two disruptive visitors to test its grievous limits, and disappear into the mist and dark welcoming ground.

Their whole world — if they should unlikely have cared to look, it not being unusual or odd in its ways — was a dark one. A great shadow settled over the dark sinking land, the wind, like the exhalation of a last dying breath, traveled lifelessly across the moors in a lethargic way, dismal, that befit the growing malice in the sky, turned a cruel purple by the clashing clouds.

"'Am not!" a harsh voice behind her replied, the two words both cutting with coarseness the queer and undisturbed quiet of the moors, and melting into it, suspended strangely in the air so that the growl of that sure declaration might have easily confused itself with the thunder, which rumbled with increasing malignity up above.

The girl, darting down the slick stone slope, still wet so high above the natural ground, from the morning's unforgiving rains, had no heed or care to the dire fate that awaited her faltered step; sharp black rocks that stretched up unkindly from the ground, in hopes of her unfettered fall. Her white muslin dress was turned grey from the sallow light, but still it was a strange disturbance to the darkness of the heath to have her trample the dim and silent land, a wraith or pixie moving about the gloom with thoughtless ardor.

"Cathy!" the shout, uttered from a deep and gross part of his chest, was feral and mean, but left unheard, for a great crack of thunder roared above at the very instant in which he shouted, and nearly bade him cover his ears.

The girl had turned at that moment to glance back, perhaps in frenzied or passing concern to the closeness of her follower, but startled by the clamorous boom, and the wind – it having gained a certain malice from the ordeal, blowing harshly now upon her– she saw only his black silhouette, yet it blended strangely with the giant form of craggy rock, and therefore it was to no surprise that she did not see his frantic gesture when she stepped back, and not having a moment to utter cry, disappeared from his sight below, into the dark mouth of steep stone.

"Cathy!" he cried; it was a primal thing, the way his eyes flashed and did not give him second to ponder this grievous happening before his very legs had started toward her. He felt his heart race, rumbling in his chest like the clouds frowning down, and blocking his sight with shadow. His feet pounded the stony steps, and he seemed to dare the slippery precipice to consume him with the furor in which he strove.

The wind had picked up indeed, and if he was one of frail constitution, perhaps he would have felt fear for his own life when threatened with the surly gusts that seemed intent on ripping his legs out from under him. He was not reckless, but it was instinct that drove him forward down the rocky ledge, without concern for his bodily being, the wind whipping without mercy, perhaps now riled to malcontent with their elan after its afternoon of lethargic indifference.

Each step onto a pointed ledge, each slide of the foot from a rocky stoop would be enough to finish him, the thunderous sky above drumming madly the rhythm to this perilous spectacle. His shoe caught hold time and again to a nook where it would not hold, and yet once more did he evade the slashing, jagged, knife-like stones which awaited him below.

But it seemed, his luck would ill endure; he made to jump across a dark gap between two stone ledges, as a way to quicken his dissent. He made the bound, the crackling sky's beat thrumming its thunderous tune, and he cleared the horrid leap,— but no sooner did he land did his balance betray him, sending him tumbling down the rocky ledge he had so aimed to clear. He brought his arms up to shield his face as the pointed pebbles pressed into his arms and legs, his body rolling helplessly into their grasp.

He came to a sudden halt as he felt a blunt force unexpectedly arrest him, and afflicted, sat up, looking only once to the giant stone barrier that had stemmed his decline into the rocky pit below. Standing, he paid no mind to the sharp searing pain that seemed to consume his wrist, or to the pounding of his head. "Cathy!" he cupped his hands around his mouth, teeth glinting in the weird half-light of the blackened world. He could not see her, or his former path, and glanced hurriedly, disoriented, to the unfriendly towers and cliffs of rock around him, hoping to gauge some sort of reference from their stoic bodies.

"Catherine!" he called, and though his head ached, could not feel it ere the anguish of his heart be quelled. There was no answer but the drumming canvas hanging above him, threatening with each passing moment to break into torrential deluge. Giving up on his fruitless position, he began again to scale the rocks, to gain his former vantage, but was started by a glimpse of white muslin, not so very far from him, peaking out from behind the black hungry stones.

"Catherine!" he roared, his harsh tone belying the relief he felt at the breaking of the vice on his chest. "Why did you not answer me?" he asked, the thunder booming up ahead, but both this and her helpless state, propped up flaccidly against a corner of rock, did nothing to move him, as he so readily recalled her harsh words before.

There was no answer but the weak fluttering of tired eyelids, and again the vice clenched him, and he knelt beside her.

"Heathcliff?" she asked, her voice quiet. "Oh!"–

He was already close enough near her face to feel her breath, and he stared into her eyes.

"I fell!" she said and he nodded, she looked up the winding cliff from which she toppled, "From all the way atop there!" she seemed light of head and strange of temper, and he swept her body with his eyes. "Oh, Heathcliff! Do not look at me in that way! I am fit of body, just, — help me to stand!"

At her bidding, he stood, offering a work-strained hand to her, and the muscles roping his arms made no complaint to her frail weight as he pulled her up.

He kept an arm about her waist, but removed it at her startled stare, and held her by the shoulders until she caught her balance.

"See? No harm done to me, I am of strong—" but she had not one more word to say ere she collapsed to the ground in insufferable pain. Tears streamed from her eyes, covered in dirt from her fall, and frail-looking amongst the stony boulder-hills. "Don't touch me!" she yelled as he reached for her leg, bent awkwardly and swelled.

"How can I fix you if I cannot !" he demanded, the harshness of his voice dissipating when her eyes overflowed once more. "Cathy!" he cried and pulled her close, forgetting they were not anymore children than Nelly or Joseph. She sobbed into him, disregarding, too, the fierce reprove so readily available at their home, –where they could now not speak nor whisper,– if this action were discovered.

"What shall we do!" she asked, her voice strained from pain, or wariness, he could not tell. And she was limp against him.

He closed his eyes, the feeling of her so helpless against him made him weak like he despised to be, but he did not hate her, he did not scorn her, and only gathered her tormented body closer in protection.

"Heathcliff!" she cried again, to startle him out of his thoughts.

"Catherine," he said, looking up at the sky, which had, during their ordeal, begun to splatter the earth with heavy, unforgiving raindrops. "—Find a place out from this cursed rain!" he cried, and looked to her, she made a small motion of assent, and her grip tightened unexpectedly on his shirt as he rose, her legs hanging limp in his arms. With new purpose and drive, he looked for a way up from the rocky pit, and held her close like she could fall to pieces in his arms. He could feel her breath quick like a coney's against his chest, and he worried so that he pressed her head – her soft flaxen hair wet and stuck against him,– gently against his shoulder.

* * *

She blinked her eyes slowly, the strange flickering of red and yellow somewhere in the side of her vision; and a dull kneading pain suddenly came back to her, as it pulsed in her brow. She placed a hand at her head and shivered, blinking again to dispel the strange array of colors that scattered in her sight. Attempting to sit up, she soon realized the grave repercussions of such an action, as a severe pain ran down through her hip and into her foot, and made her eyes fill with tears.

She felt a hand at her arm and looked instantly to its source, it was Heathcliff, his dark black hair slashing across his face, and his eyes dead with some sick thing that might have been fear. "You're awake. I thought you never would! I could tell you the seconds that have passed since you have last spoken!" He moved to touch her leg, but let his fingers hover over her skin, "It hurts, still?"

She nodded, and he placed a hand behind her back to help her up and lean against the wall. She was then able to gather her surroundings, and saw that they, she and Heathcliff, were trammeled — or, as she gazed with struck eyes out at the monstrous storm,— sheltered, inside a small cave, and in it was a tiny fire, just enough to light the space and give an impression of heat. Heathcliff now was sitting across the fire, his long legs bent up with his arms resting motionless atop them, the shadows of the fire and cave intermingling with the caverns of his face, causing him to look frighteningly brutish.

She grit her teeth at the pain, and it struck her heart then that he had searched for a place for her comfort, and lit the fire with her intent. "Oh! Thank you for the fire— but it seems, I am still so cold, that it is no remedy."

He brought his dark eyes up once to her, and distractedly poked the tiny fire.

"Where are we? How far are we from the Heights?" she asked, hoping to receive some sort of reply, but he merely shrugged and did not look up. Her temper rose and she said, "Heathcliff! Do not sit there like some horrid brute! Come here and sit by me— I am all alone and hurt, and you don't even care that I am confused and tired, and sick of your quietness! Why won't you speak to me?"

He made a noise like a growl and poked the fire once more.

"Are you still on about how I called you savage?" she asked, and saw his eyes flicker though he did not take his gaze from the wall of the cave, or move once the black hair that fell across his face. "Heathcliff!" and she wished he were closer so she could either touch his hand or slap his face. "You are such a fool!" and she laughed.

"You should learn to watch your tongue," he replied, in a growl, as he looked up to her face, contorted in laughter. This enraged him further, "Why do you laugh so?" and he looked down at himself and back to her, as way of showing how ridiculous she seemed.

"No, no,"she said, undisturbed by his harsh tone, "You misunderstand," and she placed a hand to her chest, the last of her laughter coming away as a painful wheeze. "I do not laugh _at _you, but _with _you!"

His face was puzzled, and he was not sure if she suffered from some delusion, or not.

"I could not ever truly be coarse to you, Heathcliff! When I call you a savage, it is my temper, not my heart speaking, — as when you use cruel tones to me, like you are now!"

And he felt some small pang of guilt at her words, –like he could for no other's words,– for they were true, and it bothered some deep warded part of him to know this; it bothered him, indeed, to know that against one he could hold no defense,but he angrilycast the vexing thought aside, finding it would not persist in perishing. And when he spoke again, she knew he had tried to sound less severe. "So you are not well?"

"No; not well, but very bad, I fear; and I feel faint, and it grieves me," and she pressed a hand to her head. "Heathcliff," she said, "I am very cold."

Her clothes were still wet, they clung to her body in ways that made Heathcliff blush, and he looked once more to her, as if he knew what he might do, but decided best against it. Her hair was dry now, and he yearned so plainly to run his fingers through its tresses, but kept his hands firmly interlocked, and would not look at her, for fear his body may guide his mind, and not the other way around.

A moment later though, he did rise, and took from a jutting piece of rock, his hanging jacket, now just barely damp, and moved toward her. He knelt by her side and covered her with it, glancing once, like a doctor might to his patient, at her disfigured leg, and it struck him how strong she must be, to withstand the torment to her own mind.

He made to rise, but was stopped by the pressure of her hand on his arm, and he met her eyes, "Please, sit by me, Heathcliff," was what she said to him, and confirmed to him that she knew not the thoughts that entered his mind, when they were alone in the darkness.

But he sat by her, he could hardly feign deny her, and suddenly felt her head on his shoulder in a way that warmed his soggy limbs.

"Heathcliff, speak to me," she said, her voice once more quiet, like a voice sounds on the edge of sleep, "You hardly speak so much anymore, and you look different, and seem different, and it alarms me, sometimes, that you should be _my _Heathcliff, and not some other's, by the way you look at me— like _I _have changed instead!"

"It is not fault of mine that we can hardly speak," was his only answer, low and guarded

"Do you mean by that, that it is _mine_?"

"I mean that though the world should change its seasons, and the rains may change the rocks, and winds may change the passage of the seas, that I should _never _change by time, at least my feelings towards _you_," and he ventured nothing more.

"And I the same," she said, and was quiet again.

Outside the thunder roared and the rains pelted the stone precipices, lightening cut across the sky and lit the cave then darkened it again in an instant--- it was strange how suddenly something that seemed so clear could recede into blackness. The small fire burnt, invariably, the little dry wood Heathcliff could gather, and was beginning to dim.

"Oh!" Catherine wailed, and she did not favor whining, so it startled her companion. "I do think the fire will die, and I with it! if I don't get some warmth or relief!"

"Catherine!" his heart hurried again, "Why would you say that?" he asked, though did not expect an answer, and worked to conceal his frenzied nerves with distraction, and moved to stoke the fire.

She laughed again, he figured, by way of the pain, and spoke like she had slipped a bit into the oblivion of disillusion. "Heathcliff, imagine what a fit Hindley must be in! To know us both lost, together, in the dark, and no way to come out and find us!"

"— scold us," Heathcliff corrected, and she laughed again, this made him flash his teeth, in a grin, or something like it.

"Oh!" and her eyes lit with realization, as through her pain-fogged mind she knew the flogging that would befall her friend when they returned, as punishment for nothing but her own silliness. "I shall not let him harm you," she declared, and he was somewhat surprised by the hardness of her stare and the set of her voice, "You could have broken this miserable extremity of mine by your own hand and I would not let a whip-tongue touch you!"

"Catherine," said Heathcliff, "I'd rather it be my pain than yours," and he shifted, to better suit her body, which was looking for support.

Her eyes filled with tears once more, and he deemed her impressionable state on the pain in her leg, but waited for her to speak, "You are too good to me!" she said, and covered her face.

"You are a stupid girl," he said, "to think that," and was quiet again.

"Distract me, Heathcliff," she said, her face twisted in anguish, "My vile limb is making me wild!"

"Catherine," he began, with the intent, it seemed, to say something of import, but stopped suddenly, and began anew, "I should like to— to,— go out and find you help! I will," and he stood.

"No!" she shouted to stop him, "I do not want to be alone."

"You musn't—"

"— be alone. Sit. You vex me with this agitated temper of yours."

He sat again, and crossed his arms.

"Oh! Look at your hand! You didn't even mention it, what a goodly sacrifice, and a foolish one!" and she reached instantly for his mangled wrist, but upon touching the soft tender flesh, he, out of surprise, roared and snatched it away.

"Why did you do that!" he snarled, and her eyes reflected the fire.

"Come here, so I can mend your arm,— you crazy beast, I should like to tame that out of you!" she said, hurt, though she be so accustomed to his surliness, by the fierce reaction to her concern.

"I am fine!" he replied, and would have stood, but for his knowledge that she leant now fully against him, for support at sitting up. "I need no caring for!"

Her fire was instantly quelled and, unfazed now by this show of guarded defense, she placed a gentle hand on his arm. "It hurts you," she said, quietly, and this soft turn of her voice could maybe melt his feral protection. "Let me see it," she said, careful to disallow any impatience to enter her voice, and she tried to pull his arm gently toward her, but he made no move to allow it— nor to avoid it. And she took the battered the part of his body into her hands and inspected it.

"If I could only spend my life with you, Heathcliff! I'd rather be in a dreary storm forever than by some placid fireplace!" He looked to her, surprised by this new subject, but said nothing. "But I fear it would be always like this! We would nurse each other's hurts, and nothing more!"

He did not understand her, and was again reminded of the extreme hurt she suffered, and blamed it on this.

Before he noticed what she had done, she had torn a piece of her dress, and was working at dressing his disfigured hand, "That hurts!" he shouted at her prodding, but she continued with no mind to his complaints.

It was a moment, and then she finished, looking happily at her handiwork.

"Heathcliff, though it pains me to be alone with you tonight— for my body aches, I have never been happier in a long while."

"I have—" and she looked to him, disappointment writ across her features, "for every moment I spend with you is as great, and greater than the last!"

She smiled. "You speak to me as if I were a flower that could not be picked, and must wither while you watch," she said, and the straight look of his dark eyes never changed. She narrowed hers, "How is it that Nelly calls you a devil, I don't know! I see no malice in your gaze,— but it is dark, perhaps, that is why. But so many have this dark gaze to me, and you are not one of them!"

"I can't—" he began, but stopped, though she nudged him gently to continue, "I can't do right by her, by Hindley, your wicked brother, by any-one! I would curse the day I was brought here, if not for you," and his face was hidden by the mane of black, so she could not see his expression.

"It is not right to call my brother wicked, even if he is so, for he holds you in our house, my father—"

"If your father were still alive, perhaps life would behold more than one single sunbeam!"

"Do not be so coarse with me," she spoke, the dimming fire like her strength. "Remember when you'd laugh, and we'd play so in the moors? The heath, it was so lovely then, do you remember?"

"I remember," he said, and felt her shiver against him. "You are still cold?"

"Colder," she affirmed, and pulled his coat closer to her body.

Without anymore prompting, he put his arm around her, and held her close like when he carried her, limp and unconscious, to their refuge. She knew this asked for no outcries, or mention of the harm this action would inflict upon them, had they been in a place that society could watch. But they both were quiet, and she, for all her pain, was comforted by the feeling of his arms surrounding her, and damned the world that they should deny her this feeling of complacency.

"Heathcliff?" she said sleepily, her shudders reduced by the heat from his body, "Do you know, that we shall always be together, and that I shall never harm you?"

He did not answer, but she continued.

"Heathcliff, do you remember what it was like to be in Liverpool?" she asked, it was a subject of which they rarely spoke— life before they were companions. "Father had said it was like hell on earth, like nothing else he'd ever seen. Do you remember that?"

He was silent for a long moment, but spoke, just a solitary sentence; he need not say more, and fell silent afterwards, "I remember no one to hold me, when I was cold."

They did not speak anymore that night, and the fire eventually faded away, but the heat between them never dimmed. Catherine slept, the wet of her dress cold against her, and the salt of tears upon her face— but whether they be both hers and Heathcliff's, she would not try to look, and only he could tell.


End file.
